


Reflections and Regrets

by Aziquesa (Taruyison)



Series: Ten Thousand Themes [5]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Experimental Style, Gen, Heavy Angst, Overuse of Hyphens and Semicolons, Reflection, Regret, Self-Doubt, Self-Reflection, falling back into regular writing style at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 00:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14343906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taruyison/pseuds/Aziquesa





	Reflections and Regrets

It's not that Haytham doesn't like his current life as a Templar Grandmaster. No; in fact, despite all the killing and violence, he quite enjoys life as he lives it. Maybe because it's all he knows and because he hasn't gotten to taste the possibility of a different life; much unlike his current one. Maybe because he feels it's his duty to lead the Templars toward the goal they're fighting to reach - the promise of a New World Order - worldwide peace for humanity. Or perhaps it's just that he never has enough free time on his hands to be able to let his mind wander - to let his thoughts roam freely.

 

One evening in late August though, Haytham did just that. He had just finished a letter to Charles; a reply to the question if they should meet up in Boston to plan their next course of action. Haytham would have approved of this, were it not for his latest run-in with that bastard son of his - Connor. He couldn't trust the boy to keep his nose out of where it didn't belong. He had the eyes of an eagle and ears big as an elephant. Nothing seemed to pass by without him noticing it, and though it was an admirable trait to be so perceptive, it put Haytham on edge. He had to look over his shoulder at least three times and up at the rooftops twice before either sending or receiving any kind of valuable information, just to make sure it wouldn't get into the wrong hands - Connor's hands - or his ears, in this case.

Such thoughts of the young Assassin crossed the Templar's mind on this specific evening. He was leaning back on a chair in front of the table in the room he'd rented at the Green Dragon tavern. His coat and hat had been left on the hanger by the door, just like his sword and pistol were neatly placed on a side table right next to it. The bracers were left on his wrists as a precaution, would there be the case of any uninvited guests. A soft curl in the corners of his lips formed a smile to the old man's face. Unbeknown to him, it was the thoughts of his son that brought on such expressions. The boy was undoubtedly brilliant in his thinking, though he was too often at haste with his actions - this leading to failure followed by a chase of his target. Such a flaw could have fatal consequences - lethal even - were it not for the highly developed perception and reflexes. Such a skill was known to be hard to find, and would take years to master - which Connor had done.

 

The Templar slowly rose from where he was seated to walk up to the window right next to a small drawer. Not much were to be seen through the dust and grease, but Haytham was not yearning for a view. It was merely the need to keep moving and keep his senses alert that drew him to stand. With his hands knit behind his back and eyes flickering between the blurry figures resembling men outside the window, his thoughts continued their previous endeavor. Traveling from the skills possessed by his bastard son, he went over how little he had seen each time they would run into each other. Chin and nose mirrored his own, but those dark eyes and tanned skin were carried down from his mother. A woman of Native origin with a determination and willpower unlike any woman he had met previous to rescuing her and a handful of her people from British army men. The image of her face flickering by his retinas brought a deep heaviness that settled into his chest.

Not once before had he wondered. Not once had he thought back. Haytham always looked to the future, thinking about his next few steps. It was the present and the future that mattered, after all. There had never been reason, nor time to think about the past. Now as he stood though, memories flashed and his thoughts spiraled. He was back in the valley belonging to the Mohawk people, inside the cave where he had been told there would be a sacred vault - built by Those Who Came Before. The gentle indents in the wall gave off a soft, unearthly glow as he held out the circular artifact. Amazed, he stepped closer and reached his hand up, searching for cracks or indents that would signify a way inside; a loose stone that would hide a secret compartment. As the glow faded however, he swore with frustration.

 

_"You seem disappointed"_

 

Images from Haytham's past now blended in with the images his eyes projected onto his brain, blurring the line between reality and fantasy. A heavy lump collected in the depth of his chest as he turned, and in the moment of weakness he fell - figuratively and mentally; allowing himself to soar into the gentle embrace of his memories. Before him stood the woman of his dreams; strong, fearless and independent. Her dark eyes and tanned skin called upon him to take a step closer - compelling, daring, begging; screaming even. He obliged without a second of hesitation. "I thought that I held a key that would open something here..." he mumbled, defeated and looked down on the amulet he held in his hand. The artifact which had previously been glowing much like the indents in the wall - soft and otherworldly. Now, through the Templar's eyes, it seemed only be a rock of an odd shape - painted and decorated with fancy thread.

"This room is all there is" Kaniehtí:io stated. Haytham met her gaze and felt a pressure in his chest - increasing by the minute. Suddenly, a shadow loomed over him before he was seemingly pulled from the scene. Not enough that it would fade away, but he was now a bystander rather than an active participant. Watching, he saw the ghostly figure of himself finish what he had started; he saw Ziio tell the tale of  _Iottsitíson_ , the Sky Woman; heard himself thank her for her kindness. He couldn't take much more. Haytham in this time bowed his head, one hand rubbing his temple in a fruitless attempt to dull the memories - and the stubborn ache that had started to pound in his head. Gray eyes closed shut for a moment, looking up only to stare into the deep brown ones belonging to the native woman.

The kiss was brief, yet overwhelming. Soft, gentle, loving. Peace settled into his being, the Templar allowing himself to relax into it - regrettably. As his arms found the light form of Kaniehtí:io, the scene shattered before him, and something inside him cracked. The bracers on his arms suddenly too heavy to wear; a soft sting - burning through his clothing; pinkening marks forming on his skin. Haytham felt his heart sink. If he hadn't used Ziio - used her for his own winning only to leave her in the dark - would things have been different? Were it that he had stopped the plot to set fire to the village of Kanatahséton, would she still be alive? Had he not left them to their own kin, would Ziio and Connor welcome him? Had he stayed, would his son be Connor, and not Ratonhnhaké:ton? Were it that he hadn't betrayed her trust, would he have known about his son sooner?

 

The old man sat back heavily into the chair he'd previously been seated in. So many questions and no time to find any answers for them. Haytham had work to do; letters to write, reports to read and papers to sign. He was a busy man, he didn't have the luxury to dwell in his past and wish he had done things differently. Templar Grandmaster Haytham Kenway combed a hand through his hair, undoing the red ribbon holding it in place at his nape in the process. Not bothering to tie it back, attention was brought back to the mess of papers and scrolls scattered about the table before him. Picking up the quill, beginning the spawn of a letter in his head, only to stop with the tip hovering a bare inch over the paper. Blank. A drip of ink dropped on the tattered surface; a stain the size of the pad of his thumb.

Heaviness upon his shoulders.

Emptiness of his chest.

Clothing suddenly too tight.

Haytham knew of the feeling - recognition dawning. Regret was urging his thoughts to a halt; stilled his movements; numbed his senses. Regret - heavy with self-loathe. If the Templar hadn't been so busy with himself and his work, could he be living in a different reality; one in which he had a wife, a son - in which he had a family.

Never would he know, for it was all too late. Connor was an assassin, Ziio was dead, and Haytham himself might as well be - doomed to forever live his life in the tragic loneliness.


End file.
